


gentle poison to calm my soul

by kimaracretak



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bondage, F/F, Hair-pulling, Punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 18:57:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14921046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimaracretak/pseuds/kimaracretak
Summary: Maketh comes home, and has to pay for being gone.





	gentle poison to calm my soul

**Author's Note:**

> '100 words of traitors'
> 
> title from the birthday massacre, 'unkind'

"I was wondering how long it would take you to find your way home."

Pryce's left hand is tight against Maketh's throat. The fingers of her right are tangled in Maketh's hair, fingernails scraping none too gently against her scalp. Maketh's own hands are bound, maglocked to the arms of her chair.

She can barely breathe. She's not sure she's ever been happier.

This is where she belongs.

"How long until your rebel friends notice you're gone?" Pryce whispers as she leans down, teeth grazing Maketh's ear. "How long do I have you for?"

Maketh grits her teeth, but can't stop herself from whimpering as Pryce's fingers press down even harder against her throat. "Forever." The word is hardly a wisp of a thing, but it's the only truth she has left.

"Good girl." The hand in Maketh's hair _pulls_ , and her neck arches as tears spring to her eyes at the sharp, perfect pain.

Too soon, though, her hair is released, Pryce's hand slipping over her shoulder and under her tunic. Maketh licks her lips, tries to focus on the throbbing in her scalp and not its echo between her legs. Neither of them are supposed to acknowledge that this is partially about pleasure.

Maketh can feel Pryce's gaze, so hotly focused she's almost surprised it doesn't laser-burn the clothes from her body. Her hand, too, is hot as she roughly squeezes Maketh's breasts, flicks at her nipples. Maketh fidgets, presses her thighs together helplessly, but Pryce notices anyway.

"Poor thing. Did no one do this for you while you were gone?" Despite the words there's no pity in her tone, just a bored disinterest. Maketh shakes her head, and Pryce asks, "Not even General Syndulla?" Now she sounds almost surprised.

Maketh shakes her head again. "Just you."

And then Pryce withdraws, even the hand at Maketh's throat, and she gasps, trying to catch her breath and wondering if her answer was somehow a disappointment. For a moment she's utterly bereft, and then she feels the warmth of Pryce's body at her back again, right before something metal slices her tunic neatly down the middle, leaving her torso entirely exposed.

"Welcome home, traitor."

Maketh spreads her legs, and hopes that  _forever_ is longer for her than it has been for so many others.


End file.
